


Three Small Words (In A Perfect Line)

by mazzyg



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Kissing, Real Life Names, Roderich Is Bad At Communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 20:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7478796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazzyg/pseuds/mazzyg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roderich is not very good at communication, but Elizaveta's never been one to waste words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Small Words (In A Perfect Line)

“I love you.”

Roderich froze, his fingertips wedged under the edge of the piano cover to lift it.

His thoughts flew from him with the force of a flock of startled doves scattering into the sky. 

“E-excuse me?” He straightened and turned sharply to the doorway, where Elizaveta stood with a coy smile to her mouth, long gardening gloves clutched in her hands. Dirt smudged one cheek, and her skirts were a mess. The thorn bush must have caught on her, for they were torn, and would need mending. 

Elizveta’s eyes smiled, like a pleased cat’s.

“I love you,” she repeated brightly. 

“A…ah. I. See. Uhm.” Roderich fumbled for his glasses, adjusting them. Perhaps if he straightened them again the world would slip into proper focus, into a place where Elizaveta did not say ‘I love you’ suddenly from doorways looking like earth and warm and hearth and home. 

Footsteps sounded on the floorboards, bright and echoing sharply into the vaulted ceiling that carried the sound of the piano so well. He looked everywhere in the room, and then to Elizaveta, only to find her right in front of him with that smile still on her face. Amused, he categorized it suddenly, when she stuck her dirty gloves into her apron pocket.

Her dirty, calloused fighter’s hands cupped his face and his gaze snapped to her eyes. He stilled, as a bird does when caught in tight fingers, his hands flat by his waist. 

“Elizaveta, what are you—“

“I love you,” she repeated for a third, jolting time, before she kissed him.

“Mmph,” he tried to protest, only to taste her mouth. Salt. A tang of iron, as if she’d recently bloodied her lip. Rich earth. His hands fumbled at her waist, trying to find a proper place to put themselves, but his head felt too filled with sky and his lungs too empty of air to think. The piano bench bumped against the back of his knees, and he sat abruptly, only to have Elizaveta’s skirts brush over his thighs. 

She straddled him without pause, sinking down to keep their mouths together. He rather felt this was all wrong, and not at all how a kiss should go—not with a mouth so gentle, but with hands that like iron cages refused to let his jaw go. No sweet seduction, or forceful takeover, just a statement as clear as the notes in a sonata and a kiss as forthright as the clearest fact in the Encylopedia.

I love you. Just like that.

I kiss you. Just like this.

His lungs burned when she broke the kiss, Elizaveta’s brilliant green eyes holding sparks of gold from the afternoon sun, and the loose fall of her hair a halo about her head above him. He looked up at her, struggling to breathe, and looked at a goddess.

She bent to kiss him again, just as slowly, her thumbs caught over the high edge of his cheekbones and her fingers stuck behind the hinge of his jaw, but this time his hands settled on her hips with the delicacy of settling birds. He did not struggle against the need for air this time. The kiss was brief, just a press of their lips together, before she swept her hands down his cheeks. They tingled with the roughness of her callouses ground with dirt.

Elizaveta sighed into his ear, and stretched her back, her arms thrust over his shoulders to droop at the wrists and her chin on his shoulder so they sat cheek to cheek. The soft press of her breasts against his chest distracted him every time one of them breathed in deeply. He stared past her shoulder, her weight heavy on his thighs, and spread his fingers until he could feel the slope of her hips underneath the layers of cotton and crinoline. 

He waited for her to say something, or move, but only ended up fighting to keep his back straight with an aching stomach. Her chin dug into his collarbone.

“And?” she asked brightly, voice so close and suddenly loud he started. His knees bumped apart, and her weight sank against him with a half-purpose that made his skin heat.

Ah. His throat worked, heart racing, and he ran his hands down through her petticoats until they were dusted with a layer of garden-muck. He could feel her tremble slightly against his chest, and realized suddenly that for all her easy courage, in this moment, the air drew taught with her sudden unspoken fear.

His thoughts fell into perfect lines, like the staff and measure of music. So simple. So easy. A child’s swinging tune.

A turn of his head brushed his lips over her ear.

“I love you,” he breathed, and the words were easy to say.

**Author's Note:**

> A long time ago I wrote this short thing for a friend who adores these two. (I do too.) Granted, throw any of these ridiculous personalities together and it's a good time.


End file.
